


ward

by jellijeans



Category: Fire Emblem Echoes: Mou Hitori no Eiyuu Ou | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia
Genre: F/M, Gen, also emetophobia warning i guess?, and as usual massive spoilers, like skin scratching self harm-y type of way, nothing explicit or anything but it is mentioned (in like an this almost happens kind of thing), sorry - Freeform, uhhhhh just a warning there is a bit of scratching in this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-03-29 09:00:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13923795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jellijeans/pseuds/jellijeans
Summary: Alm stands on his father’s grave, a grand pewter plateau with the actual tomb resting neatly on top, and sobs so hard he’s surprised he hasn’t woken the entire capitol up with his cries; he scratches and tears at a patch on the back of his left wrist, just further back from where his brand is—the same side of his arm, even—until his wrist is pink and rashed with irritation. Every scar on his body aches, every overused muscle burns with sorrow and agony and horror; in front of him, beneath him, is whatever remains of his father, the decaying body of whatever remains of the person he plunged the royal sword through without a second thought until it was far, far too late.





	ward

**Author's Note:**

> (i wrote this primarily as a vent work, as something happened to someone very important to me recently, so some of the things in this fic are related to things that have happened in my life, like scratching, almost throwing up, etc., as a result of anxiety or other things. if any of these things are a trigger for you, while they are only touched upon a bit in this fic, please take care of yourself and don't read, or read with caution.)

Alm stands on his father’s grave, a grand pewter plateau with the actual tomb resting neatly on top, and sobs so hard he’s surprised he hasn’t woken the entire capitol up with his cries; he scratches and tears at a patch on the back of his left wrist, just further back from where his brand is—the same side of his arm, even—until his wrist is pink and rashed with irritation. Every scar on his body aches, every overused muscle burns with sorrow and agony and horror; in front of him, beneath him, is whatever remains of his father, the decaying body of whatever remains of the person he plunged the royal sword through without a second thought until it was far, far too late.

 

His chest is tight and his stomach feels like it’s eating itself from the inside out, and Alm almost vomits.

 

He falls to his knees and he can feel the bitter cold stinging at him through his armor, and his tears almost feel like they’re freezing over on his cheeks; he places both of his hands on the grave and sinks down until his elbows, too, are pressed against the ground, and he slams his fist down and screams.

 

He hears footsteps on the stone behind him and raises his head to see Celica, dressed only in one of the former Rigelian empress’ cloaks and her nightdress, concern and anxiety scoring her face.

 

“Alm?”

“C-Celica, I—”

Alm’s entire body racks with another horrific sob, and he curls his fists tighter. It really does feel like he’s going to throw up—his entire body is rejecting itself.

“Alm, what happened? Are you okay?”

“My...my father...”

Celica immediately understands and drops to a crouch next to him, taking off the cloak and draping it around Alm’s shoulders.

“Celica, you’re going to freeze—”

“That’s not important right now, Alm. I need to make sure you’re okay.” She takes his hand squeezes it, and he can almost feel the heat pulsing from her brand. She steps in front of him and wraps her arms around him, and he collapses onto her, shaking.

“Celica, I—I’m so sorry, and I can’t even tell him, and I could’ve prevented this and this is my fault and—and—”

He convulses again and his fingers tighten around her arms, and she merely pulls him tighter.

“I love you, Alm,” she whispers softly. She pulls a hand up and brushes it through his hair, and her fingers trace their way down to his left wrist, where they stop.

She’s noticed.

She doesn’t speak, merely helps him stand up and draws him tighter, pulling him closer and not even speaking, just holding him and breathing until he stops shaking and his breath stabilizes a bit, even if he’s still crying. She brushes her brand over his like they used to when they were children, when the biggest concern on their minds was why one of Mycen’s rams liked her more than Alm, and helps him back inside.

 

Once they’re back in the castle, Alm has dipped into a state of exhaustion, so she disinfects his wrist and casts a quick recover on it, and then bandages it just to be sure; by the time she comes back into the room, Alm has already changed into sleeping clothes and passed out. His breathing is still uneven, but he’s okay.

 

Celica presses a soft kiss to his forehead and curls up next to him, with her back against his, and drifts off into a sleep so much warmer than the freezing pewter tableau.


End file.
